The Dangers of Overthinking
by pearlcaddy
Summary: Jack's thoughts on near kisses and actual kisses during "Death Do Us Part."
1. Is that the best you can do?

Jack Robinson had felt unsettled all day. The death of a police constable, the threat on Henry Fisher's life, the potentially related murder, and the disappearance of the aforementioned Baron of Richmond. But, if he was going to be honest, none of that was what was really making him feel so strange.

No, it was Phryne Fisher's finger on his lips. He'd gotten used to the fact that she would often linked her arm through his when they were walking, that they would stand much closer to each other than was necessary or even perhaps appropriate, that she would send a seemingly constant stream of innuendos and invitations his way. These things hadn't stopped affecting him, but they were so familiar that he was able to fight the temptation to give in to what they meant.

But if she was going to start making it a common occurrence to stand inches away from him with her finger on his lips and her eyes locked on his, his resolve was going to crumble faster than a loaf of bread under a boulder.

Only moments later, she had put her hand on his chest, seemingly without even thinking about it. An instinctive touch, a complete comfort with it, as if they had been together for years instead of, well, technically never.

But then, almost immediately after, she had been giving Osman Efendi that sexually appraising look, and receiving it right back. He suspected he might soon get whiplash from the extremes of her attentions. It seemed like the more intimacy and interest she expressed in him, the more she would then send another's way. He was most likely projecting, he tried to reason with himself. The more flirtatious their conversations got, the more certain and soon their eventual romance seemed to became, and so the more it hurt to see her give that look to another man.

After months of dancing around each other, slowly moving closer and closer, he had reached the point where he didn't just hate watching it happen over and over again. He was outright done watching it. He would like to pretend that he wasn't a jealous man, and that his current uneasiness had nothing to do with a certain scientist, but in the end, it had been the revelation that Efendi was royalty that had finally tipped him over the edge. He remembered her words before their dance a few weeks ago. "I have waltzed with the best. French presidents, English princes, American film stars." Princes belonged in her past tense. It was his turn to waltz.

"Good work, Collins. We'll have a look around here." Of course, it would have been more efficient if he and Phryne split up to search the grounds of the observatory for the plutonium, but he felt like he was about to... well, he wasn't sure what, but something was happening. He could feel the change in the winds.

"Turn off your torch, Jack. If it's still glowing, we'll see it." She gently touched his arm for a moment, another one of those unnecessary, instinctive touches. He turned off his torch and let her walk ahead, still searching his mind for what to do.

"Ah, Jack, what if it's my fault?" He glanced over at her briefly, confused. Since when did the unapologetic Phryne Fisher use words like fault? "What if I drove my father away? I railed against him. What if... what if something happens and I never see him again?"

He hated that lost, powerless tone in her voice. Lost and powerless were two things Phryne never allowed herself to be. And the fact that it came out for, of all people, her father... Aside from the one reference she had made to him locking her in a closet, she had never completely specified what she meant when she said he was a horrible father. He didn't know how abusive the Baron had been to his daughter, but even the thought of the possibility made him feel sick. There was a large part of him that wanted to tell her to say a strong good riddance to any man who had hurt her. But no one had the right to tell another person that she couldn't feel upset or worry about her father's safety. Better not to address it at all.

"Whatever happens to your father, it's not your fault." She closed her eyes, undoubtedly imagining every possible thing that could happen to the Baron. "And nothing is going to happen."

"Ohhhh." She yanked off her hat and brushed out her hair. There was something about that, about how comfortable she was with showing him her fear and vulnerability and frustration and (barely) messy hair, that made him feel privileged. To most of the world, particularly the male half of it, she presented herself as perfectly coifed and in control. With him, she didn't bother hiding the real Phryne underneath. He wondered how many people outside of her family and household staff had ever had that honor.

She stared up at the sky. "Perhaps he has just headed back to England after all."

Though of course neither of them believed that. Her father was too much of a headache to slip away quietly. But he would soon find himself forced back across the world, if Phryne had anything to say about it (and she always did). And yet, Jack knew that Phryne didn't really believe she'd ever be rid of her father, or safe from all the harm and heartache he caused.

Jack turned his gaze up to stars. "Well, if it's all expanding, England will move further away." Eventually, he will be gone. I promise.

"But it all looks very still to me." The resignation in her tone made his heart sink.

"That's because you're not a telescope." The most polite way he could think of to remind her that she wasn't in the best position to be objective on the subject.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" She half-glanced over at him.

Oh. Perhaps she had been having a different conversation than him. That was, he supposed, the trouble with how much subtext they used to converse, avoiding at all costs openly committing to saying something they couldn't take back or pretend meant something else.

He thought of princes and waltzes and fingers on lips and comfortable touches and the ridiculous number of pins he had used lately as a pretense to stand kissing-distance from her.

To hell with subtext.

"More like a romantic overture." He looked straight at her.

Part of him wanted to ask himself what the hell that was even supposed to mean in the context of the conversation, but the majority of him only cared about her response.

It felt like an eternity, as she pulled her gaze from the sky and finally turned it to him. He couldn't tell if she thought it was out of the blue or about damn time. Either way, she seemed to be staring him down, evaluating whether or not he was serious. Whether or not he was actually, finally, ready to do this, or it was just more words, something he would quickly take back when it got too close for comfort.

"Is that the best that you can do?" Maybe she was teasing him. Maybe she was giving him the chance to back out as usual. Maybe she had higher expectations of him, had actually given thought to what it would be like when he finally gave in to her. Maybe—

Oh, shut up, Jack.

"Would you like me to improve on it?" He couldn't help but imagine the many varied ways he could do so, and the many varied ways she might imagine he could do so, and—

He would never be capable of turning off his brain.

"More than anything." He'd never heard her voice that soft before. Or heard those words from her. Or even known it was possible for her to even say that. This was Phryne Fisher: if she wanted something, she took it, without waiting around for everyone else to catch up. She didn't long for things, but that was what her voice said right now. She longed for him to make his long overdue romantic overture.

He stepped forward slowly, wanting to savor every moment of that look on her face and commit every second of their first real kiss to memory. He slipped his hand under her coat and pulled her toward him, their lips only inches away. He felt her hand reach up and gently grasp his right elbow, holding herself to him in return.

And then he paused. He had spent all this time wanting her to show him that she could commit, and that he was special to her. He doubted Phryne Fisher had ever said "I love you" to a man, but the part of him that was "not as liberal-minded as I would like me to be" was still waiting for it. That confirmation that he wasn't alone with his feelings, that this was something more to her than an entertaining fling, that she didn't intend to throw his heart in the trash as soon as she was done with it.

After all, he had offered the overture. The least she could do was be the one to cross that final gap.

But this was Phryne and she did not accept the half-assed. He watched her gaze shift from his eyes to the lawn past his shoulder. Her cheek brushed his nose as she turned her head, a tantalizing taste of what had almost happened.

"Jack."

This wasn't romantic Phryne. This was investigative Phryne.

"Behind you." And she quickly walked around him, the almost kiss already forgotten.

He stayed still for a moment, shell-shocked. Had they really gotten that close, only to be interrupted by something that could have waited? Did she not share his feelings, if he was less interesting to her than the case?

He turned around, trying to switch his focus to the task at hand, but a bitter lump had fallen from his heart into his stomach. He tried not to let himself realize that it was heartbreak.


	2. Anti-Climactic

Three days later, Jack found himself watching the sun rise through his bedroom window. He hadn't fallen asleep once during the night. He was still in shock, unable to wrap his head around the sudden fact that Phryne was leaving the country.

The lump that had fallen into his stomach the night of their almost kiss felt like it had leaked open, spreading a cold, stabbing pain throughout his body. It had been so long since he had gone even a couple of days without seeing her. As melodramatic as it sounded, even in the privacy of his own head, he didn't know how he would survive months. Or even—no, he couldn't bring himself to consider that it might be longer.

Then there was the part of him that was terrified that something might happen to her. There were, what, almost 17,000 kilometers between Melbourne and London? Plane accidents happened all the time. And if it happened over an ocean, he might simply not hear from her again, and never know what had happened. Yet another thing he didn't know how he could be expected to survive.

There he was again, being melodramatic.

But the part that upset him the most was the fact that, after the slow dance they had been doing for the past few months, inching closer and closer to becoming... whatever it is they would have become, nothing had happened. No grand finish. Just a goodbye, not even a private one, in front of everyone else at the wedding.

To say it was anti-climatic was an understatement. It would be more appropriate to say he would regret every single wasted opportunity to be with her until the day he died, but even that fell short.

He tried to remember what her lips had felt like that one time they had kissed so long ago at the restaurant, but he had played that memory over and over again in his head so many times. At this point, all he was remembering was the last time he had remembered it. And even if he could perfectly recall the memory, it had nothing to do with the kiss that would have happened between them now. It didn't even belong in the same category. That kiss had been to distract her, and (if he was being completely honest) to satisfy the curiosity he had been trying to pretend he didn't have. This kiss would have been one between two lovers, with the kind of joy and excitement you could only get from kissing someone you love when you know she loves you too.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? He didn't know that. The way she had so quickly moved on from their almost kiss made it seem like her feelings for him were no stronger than they had been for any man. And yet, he couldn't stop playing her words over and over again in his mind: "More than anything." Phryne Fisher wouldn't say that to just any man, would she? She didn't encourage romantic overtures; she encouraged sensual pleasures and sexual attentions.

This was different. He was different.

He shoved away the doubting voice in his head as he hurried for the door. Of all the things he was worrying about, this was the one thing he could actually do something about. He didn't know what he would say or do, but he knew he at least needed to say a better goodbye. "Is that the best you can do?" "Would you like me to improve on it?"

As he rushed to his car, he could answer the question himself: More than anything.


	3. Come After Me

When Jack drove up onto the runway, he saw the front propeller spinning and two people sitting in the plane. He worried for a second that he was too late, that he was about to watch it fly away.

But then he saw a figure climb out from the back of the plane. A figure with dark hair. His heart skipped a beat.

As he stopped the car and stepped out, he promised himself that he would walk over to her in a dignified manner, that he would keep his composure and some measure of his pride.

Then he saw her jogging toward him and he decided he didn't care very much about composure or pride.

He couldn't help but smile at the change. Here they were again, rushing to do something they could easily take their time with. Before, it had been attending to a piece of evidence; now, it was running across a field. He decided he much preferred this kind of unnecessary rushing.

He tried not to stare at her with too dopey a smile when he stopped in front of her.

"Flying all the way to England in that?"

He noticed his swallow pin (well, confiscated swallow pin) attached to her scarf and could barely hide his grin. So she'd thought of him as she was preparing to leave. And given the way she had immediately swung herself out of the plane when his car came into view, he suspected she might have been waiting for him to show up.

"It's the only way I can make sure that he'll get there." He tried not to look at the plane too closely. The idea of the woman he loved flying halfway around the world in the tiny, rickety thing made him sick.

"For God's sake, what if this thing takes off?" Jack felt his annoyance at her father, not for the first time, kick into full gear. She was doing him a favor, and here he was whining like a child while his daughter was saying a goodbye before she jetted off for who knew how long? He tried again not to think about that.

Phryne turned away from her father, completely unfazed, and immediately said, "Come after me."

Jack felt his heart stop, as if its beating would scare off her words. Where had his "avoid relationships at all costs" Phryne gone?

"What did you say?"

"It's a romantic overture." Again, his heart stopped. Maybe he was right—maybe Phryne Fisher didn't say "I love you." Or maybe she just didn't use those words.

And he had to hand it to her. She didn't wait or waste time. She just dove in, not risking an interruption.

So, be like Phryne. Don't think about it. Don't wait. Do.

But first, he just wanted to hear her say I love you one more time.

"Say it again."

She smiled. "Come after me, Jack Robinson." He barely had time to thrill at the way she said his full name. He was already swinging her into him.

One of his hands grasped the back of her head, the other her waist. And their lips met.

Later, he would remember her hands on his hips. The contrast of her soft hair under his rough fingers. Her father yelling... something impatient. He would try to give the Baron the benefit of the doubt and assume that his reaction was based on the assumption that Jack and Phryne had done this before. That he thought, based on how they interacted with one another, they had already kissed so many times as to render this particular kiss unimportant.

But at the moment, Jack's brain was completely shut off. For possibly the first time in his life, he was living, not thinking. He completely forgot all his intentions of memorizing her lips so he could relive this moment over and over again during the long, lonely future ahead.

Their lips parted with a satisfying smack. He couldn't help but feel a little smug at how her eyes stayed shut when they parted, a look of peaceful pleasure across her features. Her hair more ruffled than it had been before their kiss. Her expression a little dazed.

His mouth opened, the words "I love you" ready to spring out. He gained control of himself at the last second.

"I always feared another man would sweep you away from me." It meant the same thing. He hoped she realized that.

With the dramatics out of the way, he tried to get one last taste of their banter, to hold him over until they saw each other again.

"I never thought it'd be your father."

He couldn't restrain himself from sending one more post-kiss joy smile her way. And she sent one right back to him, the dazed look still on her face.

"There's a whole world out there, Jack. He's the least of your worries." The way she quickly scanned his body with her eyes made him desperately wish they were alone.

But he had to let her go. No one could hold her onto for long.

And yet, as she ran back to the plane, she looked back once. Then a second time.

He knew Phryne Fisher would never look back for a man. She would look back once for her friends and (possibly) her family. But twice?

Suddenly, he couldn't regret their long dance over the past few months. It no longer seemed like a string of missed opportunities. A few months ago, she would only have looked back once.

So, as he watched the plane soar off, a smile perhaps permanently attached to his face, he was already trying to figure out the fastest way to get to England.


End file.
